His Life An Open Book
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: In this episode, a brief appearance by the Phantom of the Opera, and Frankenstein, sorry, Duncan sings! Also Dracula appears and gives our heros a good tea! Yay! Story discusses some of the mysteries of Van Helsing's private life.
1. The Real Story

Chapter One: The Real Story

It wasn't a dark and stormy night.

The young man took note of this as he walked away from the vast stone building, trying not to trip in the dark. His path was strewn with rocks and other objects as if it had been deliberately designed to trip him up, and the night, though not "dark" as in "dark and stormy" was rather dimly-lighted, the moon nowhere to be seen, and the stars not shining a light strong enough to see by.

Which is how the young man managed to stumble over the figure lying on the cobblestones; not only was the figure just as solid as the rocks he'd been avoiding, it was also quite a bit bigger. The young man landed on the ground, half on top of whatever it was, his breath going out of him with a sound exactly like this:

"Oooooooph!"

A period of brief and ineffectual swearing followed.

From the figure there was nothing, and the young man uttered an exclamation of alarm and moved himself off the figure. Then he rolled the figure over till he could see the face—

It was a strong face, a handsome face, an incredibly dirty and vomit-encrusted face. The young man's stomach gave a lurch and he swallowed and made a small noise, like this:

"Gurrk."

Quickly he ascertained that the man, whoever it was, was breathing, his heart still beating. Then the young man stood up and yelled, in a slightly high-pitched, breaking voice, something unintelligible back at the building from whence he'd come. To the men just inside the door, listening, it sounded like this:

"HRRRRRRRRRP!"

—but it was probably meant to be "Help!" when it left the young man's lips. The men inside the building rushed out, tripping in the dark— they were tall, and wore robes of red. They did not leave the building often— mostly because they were sick of being made fun of because of the robes.

They rushed to their young friends assistance.

"What is it now, Carl?"

"Well, I— I was just going along minding my own business and there was this— this man— at least I think it's a man— is it a man? This man was lying here in the path— and I tripped over him and I— is he alright?"

One of the robed men glared at Carl. "What were you doing out here?"

"I– uh— er— I hurt myself," said Carl, grasping for distractions. "D'you think we could have the doctor look at it—?" Desperately he held up his skinned elbow.

The robed man wasn't buying any. "You were working on your experiments, weren't you? You were coming out here to try some of those infernal machines on the unsuspecting public."

"Well what do you expect me to do?" Carl mumbled. "All the monks know to keep out of my way by now— I need someone to practice on."

"Carl—"

"Look, shouldn't we see to the man? It is a man, isn't it?"

The robed one looked down at the figure sprawled on the ground— squinting in concentration, he bent down until the smell hit him. Then he stood up, rather quickly. "Bring him inside," he ordered, and the three others obeyed.

"But—" said Carl. The robed man glared down at him.

"Come with me."

"But— he's just an ordinary drunk."

"Come with me."

Once inside, the Cardinal explained to the young novice that there was a purpose for all of God's creatures. Furthermore, he went on, there was no such thing as an "ordinary drunk."

"Yes there is," objected Carl, "I've seen several."

"No there isn't."

"Yes there is."

"For the purposes of this conversation," boomed the Cardinal, "that man in there lying on the bed is the fabled Left Hand of God. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Not at all."

"Good. You are dismissed."

There wasn't a lot that went on in the next day or so. The man lying on the bed had a constant watch, in which Carl participated, and things seemed to be as usual— but behind closed doors, tongues were wagging.

The Cardinal finally called Carl up again.

"Now, what's this all about? I've walked in on three people worshiping that drunk in there."

"I thought he wasn't a drunk."

"You know perfectly well I was just trying to impress upon you the fact that each of God's creatures are worth the effort! What have you done?"

"Nothing, Your Eminence."

"Carl—"

"Well— I might have told a few people."

"Might?"

"One or two."

"And how do you account for all the acolytes who've been hanging around the man's room with flowers, waiting for him to wake up so they can make a good impression?"

"Well—" Carl shrugged. "You know how word gets around in the Vatican. Bunch of gossips, the lot of them."

"Carl—"

The remained of the interview was unpleasant, to say the least, and the ultimate outcome was that Carl was assigned to round-the-clock watch on the man in the bed. He was, in fact, officially known as the Man in the Bed, often shortened to MIB. Carl didn't have much of a problem with this, but if the fact had been generally known, future generations of filmgoers would have been terribly confused.

One day MIB woke up.

He opened hazel eyes and stared at Carl.

"Mommy?" he said.

Carl had been engrossed in his reading and wasn't paying attention. This sudden coherence, for a given value of "coherence", from a man in a coma startled him to no end. He jumped and said something rather bad.

MIB said, "But—"

Carl said something worse.

MIB said, "But— you're a monk— you're not supposed to swear— are you?"

Carl stared at him.

And the rest is history.


	2. The Real Moniker

Felix the Random Hobbit can still not come up with a beginning for "OVB: Road Trip."

Chaos ensues.

Chapter Two: The Real Moniker

Tea was, as usual, an ordeal. MIB had a habit of drinking heavily directly before the meal, and as a result frequently missed whilst trying to insert his cream bun into his mouth. After the third try that afternoon Carl stopped laughing and assisted in the quest.

"Where on earth do you get enough alcohol to get this inebriated?"

MIB slurred something in response that sounded suspiciously like "Cardinal Jinette's closet." At least, that was what Carl decided he was going to believe.

"Really?" he said.

MIB gurgled through his tea.

"That's fascinating."

These tea-time conversations were started as a result of MIB's attempt to sexually assault Jinette while he tried to force a confession from the drunk man. Understandably flustered, Jinette called Carl into conference and informed him that he was going to have sole custody of MIB until further notice.

Carl watched him. "Why are you blushing, Your Holiness? Is something wrong?"

Jinette stammered, which delighted Carl no end. He'd never heard the Cardinal stammer before.

Finally Jinette managed to tell Carl that what he, Jinette wished was for him, Carl, to conduct daily inquisitions into MIB's psyche. Actually, the word "psyche" hadn't been invented yet, and what the Cardinal actually said was for Carl to delve deep into MIB's "conscietta," an Italian word which actually means "an especially small loaf of sweetened bread." The Cardinal had never been particularly stellar where vocabulary was concerned.

Carl stared at him. "Are you sure?"

"Sure?" said the Cardinal, still blushing. "Of course I'm sure."

Carl shrugged, said, "Very well," and went off to dissect MIB's pastry.

A few seconds later he poked his head back into Jinette's office and said, "Sorry, Your Worshipfulness, but is there anything in particular I'm supposed to be divining from the MIB's croissant?"

Jinette took a few minutes to interpret this and then said, "Find out his name."

"Righto," said Carl the novice cheerfully, and went to take tea with MIB.

He'd done this for a week now, and quite apart from failing in his commission, was also getting entirely fed up with emerging spattered with pastry filling. Today he decided to stop at nothing in order to find out MIB's real name.

He began in the usual way.

"Hello, MIB."

"Hrrrrrgh?" said MIB. "Ohhhhhh.... the monk."

"Actually, I'm just a novice," said Carl pleasantly. This exchange had been made every day for a week and, inexplicably, had not yet driven everyone involved to distraction. "But thanks for asking. Tell me, MIB, have you a name?"

"Krrrrr," said MIB, his tongue lolling drunkenly from his mouth.

"We really must discuss that deeper. But perhaps some other time? What I'm really interested in is if there's something I should be calling you or not."

"Tra-la-la," said MIB obediently.

Carl noted down in his accurately-named notebook that MIB showed signs of having been a folk singer in a past life. Then he turned interestedly back to the man in the bed.

"Tell me, MIB, have you ever had any frighteningly maudlin experiences with squirrels?"

"Gaaaah!" said MIB.

Carl noted down that the MIB displayed symptoms of having been a somewhat-frustrated naturalist in his previous life, in between writing folk songs.

"I'll be right back, MIB."

"Whaa?"

"I said I shall return shortly."

"Hrm," said MIB contentedly.

Carl went out of the room and, as promised, returned shortly, or, to put it another way, was right back. In a small cage somewhat bigger than a breadbox he bore a squirrel.

MIB took one look at the squirrel and began to scream.

This may have insulted the squirrel, were it not for the fact that the squirrel took one look at MIB and screamed back.

Carl nodded to himself, stood over MIB and brandished the squirrel at him. "Now," he said, in as threatening a tone as he could manage, which wasn't very threatening, "what is your name?"

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—"

Carl snorted. "I highly doubt it, don't try to get around me that way. Now, what is your name?"

"AAAAAGH!"

"More likely, but still improbable. I'm going to give you one more chance and then you've got the squirrel for a bedmate."

"AaaaaAAAAAaaaaaaAAAAaaaVanHelsing!"

Carl leapt about the room in triumph, accidentally dislodging the catch on the squirrel's cage. The squirrel escaped and hid in a corner of the room, and MIB resumed screaming. Totally disregarding this, Carl ran to inform the Cardinal that MIB's true, real, and actual name was, apparently, AaaaaAAAAAaaaaaaAAAAaaaVanHelsing!

Left together alone, AaaaaAAAAAaaaaaaAAAAaaaVanHelsing! and the squirrel eyed each other. One or the other of them would have to go.

AaaaaAAAAAaaaaaaAAAAaaaVanHelsing! spoke first.

In drunk-speak, he said, "This room ain't big enough for the both of us, squirrel."

The squirrel eyed him beadily. Obviously he was in agreement.

They stared at each other.

The room was tense.

The fight started.

Van Helsing decided it was about time to sober up when the squirrel won.


	3. Real Inventions

This is a pretty bad chapter...sorry... I was just dashing stuff off, I felt the need to post something in my euphoria at having PASSED MY DRIVER'S TEST! Be happy for me! And don't yell at me for the chapter, I've got something good planned for next time, trust me! And review! And if you like LOTR check out my LOTR story because its good and nobody reads it! And other things!

Chapter Three: Real Inventions

Carl the novice had suspected for some time that his new friend was not, in fact, who he claimed to be. For starters there was the little matter of the twitching and muttering when he dreamed.

"Two and two are four, four and four are eight, eight and eight are sixteen, sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two, thirty-two and thirty-two are sixty-four, sixty-four and sixty-four are one hundred twenty eight, one hundred twenty eight and one hundred twenty eight are two hundred fifty six— "

"Wake up, Van Helsing."

"Two hundred fifty six and two hundred fifty six are five hundred and twelve—"

"Van Helsing, wake up!"

"Five hundred and twelve and five hundred and twelve are one thousand twenty four—"

Carl slapped him. Even this did not stop a Van Helsing in the grip of mathematics.

"One thousand twenty four and one thousand twenty four—"

A series of kicks followed, accompanied by a punch on the nose. Van Helsing came awake, clutching at his face and glaring at the little novice.

"Why did you do that?"

"You were counting again," Carl explained.

"Is that so bad?"

"I need to determine why you do that when you sleep."

"Why?"

"I think it may have something to do with your former life."

"I was a drunk in my former life as I am in this one," said Van Helsing, lying back against his pillows and folding his arms. "When are you going to let me get out of bed?"

"Nobody's been stopping you," said Carl, somewhat amazed, "we just always assumed you were incredibly lazy."

Van Helsing grunted, swung his feet out of the bed, and stood up. He fell immediately, landing against Carl, carrying them both to the floor, and giving rise to absolute zillions of slash- writer's epics.

"Get off me," said Carl plaintively.

"Make me," said Van Helsing."

"What?"

"I mean it, I haven't the strength to stand."

Carl shoved Van Helsing to one side and assisted him up. "Is that what you did to the Cardinal?" he wanted to know.

"No," said Van Helsing with a fiendish grin, "what I did to the Cardinal was something much worse."

Carl helped him to sit down on the edge of the bed. "I must try and figure out why you add numbers in your sleep. It may lead to you actually having a superior intellect, which at the moment is belied by your brawn."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that to all observers you appear to be a muscle-bound idiot who can't even spell the word "Truffle."

"Why should I want to spell the word 'truffle'?"

"I don't know," said Carl truthfully. "It's a nice word."

"Well perhaps I was a mathematician in my former life."

"Its doubtful," said Carl doubtfully, "I, in fact, doubt it."

"I could tell from your doubtful tone."

"Thank you— I think."

"You're equally welcome."

Carl tipped his head to one side and regarded Van Helsing closely. "Perhaps you count because you secretly are astoundingly intelligent and you feel you cannot let on in real life for fear of being made fun of."

"More made fun of than I am for being stupid?"

"Oh," said Carl, in the tone of one who will also say _I hadn't thought of that. _"I hadn't thought of that."

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, then Van Helsing looked up and said, "I have a thought!"

Carl waited.

"I—"

Carl waited some more.

"I— uh—"

Carl waited some more.

"Um— noooo, I lost it."

Carl stopped waiting and sighed. "One of these days we really must get you a brainzap appointment."

"What's a brainzap appointment?"

"An appointment to get your brain zapped."

Van Helsing gritted his teeth. "I know that, Carl, but—"

"What is a brain zap?" Carl supplied. "Its my newest invention. It stimulates intelligence in beings heretofore thought completely lacking, mentally. I've done the most amazing things with carrots."

"Carrots," Van Helsing repeated.

"Yes, and I'm moving on to rutabagas next."

"Great. Why do we need to have an appointment, if its your machine?"

"Well, it's a great invention," said Carl, stung. "Its going to be a great hit once it catches on."

"Fine. Lead the way and remove the carrots."

"How about some time next month?"

"Carl— right— now."

Carl led the way and dutifully removed the carrots.Van Helsing seated himself in the small chair thus vacated, and leaned back, giving Carl a slight frown.

"A little tight, isn't it?"

"Well, I told you I'd only had to use it on carrots."

"Begin, Carl."

"When I'm ready," said Carl airily.

"Begin, Carl," said Van Helsing, in his newly-discovered Voice of Doom.

Carl began.

Ten minutes later, viewing the smoking remains, he gulped and decided he didn't like the idea of having to report this to the Cardinal. Luckily, he was spared from this. Jinette came up behind him.

"What is that?" said the Cardinal in his false Italian accent.

"That? Uh— that's—"

"That's MIB, is it not? It is Van Helsing— isn't it, Carl?"

"It is, yes," Carl admitted.

"Fix him," said the Cardinal. He did not look happy.

"But—"

"Fix him," repeated the Cardinal, "now. We have work for him to do."

"W—work? Wh— what kind of work?"

"Important work."

"Well— you might want to try one of the carrots over there—"

"What have you done to him, Carl? Destroyed his brain?"

"No, no, no, no, nothing like that, nothing like that at all, nothing that drastic. I just— er—"

"What, Carl?"

"I turned him into a rutabaga," said Carl unhappily. "So, you see, he's not that much worse off than he was before—"

"Fix him, Carl."

"Yes, sir, your Gracefuldancerness."

The Cardinal left and Carl turned to his work with a sigh. Trust the machine to backfire when he got his first human guinea pig in the chair. Carl regarded Van Helsing mutinously and wondered if, perhaps, the carrots weren't more worth his time. They were, after all, good for eating if the experiments failed.

What was Van Helsing, the former MIB, good for? Nothing.

On the whole, Carl preferred rutabagas.


	4. The Real Beginning

Hmm. The idea of a slash epic.

No.

No, thank you. Fear not, dear readers... the insanity is strictly hetero.

Happy now? :)

Chapter Four: The Real Beginning

This is how it happened.

Kind of.

Cardinal Jinette called Carl in for yet another conference. There'd been rather a lot of those lately— mostly about Van Helsing's recovery from being a rutabaga, and some about Carl's propensity to blow up the Vatican every other day.

This one was about the former.

Carl edged into the room uncertainly and stood, shifting from foot to foot, in front of the Cardinal's desk. The Cardinal stopped doodling on a piece of paper and displayed the result to the novice.

"Very, er, very nice— pig, sir."

"It's a copy of the Mona Lisa," said the Cardinal, in injured tones.

"Of course— that's what I meant." Placating didn't seem to be working, so Carl instead tried one of his famous smiles. This didn't seem to work either.

"Hmmmph," said Jinette, disgruntled. "Why do I bother to show my work to the novice's? Can't expect someone like them to appreciate art."

"Sorry, Your Doodliness, you said it was something about Van Helsing?"

"Ah, yes. The former MIB. Van Helsing. How is his recovery coming?"

"Well, he's stopped trying to hide on a shelf in the root cellar, Your Majesty."

"Good, good. Progress. Now, young Carl, I have an assignment for you." This announcement brought a sound like, "Uhhhhh," from Carl, and the Cardinal looked startled. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing, Your Sir, its just that the last time you said that I was on bedpan detail for a month."

"Well, you'd just blown up the wine cellar, hadn't you? We had to do something as punishment."

"Why do we have a wine cellar, anyway? We're the Vatican."

"Exactly. We're the Vatican. What would we be without the Holy Wine?"

"Sorry, I know its tradition, it just— I don't remember reading anything in the Bible about God's people having to get drunk once a week."

"The exact wording," said the Cardinal frostily, "is 'bombed out of their skulls' and its found in Luke the 53rd chapter."

"There is no 53rd—"

"Shut up, novice."

Carl subsided.

"Now, your assignment, should you choose to accept it, is to get Van Helsing in fighting form. We haven't been able to dispel those 'Left Hand of God' rumors—" The Cardinal glared at Carl. "Thanks to you. And now the acolytes are beginning to get twitchy, wondering when Van Helsing is going to stop being a nasty drunk and get on with being the Left Hand of God. Because of this, we've decided to change his name from Abraham to Gabriel. And he leaves tomorrow to fight a vampire."

"A vampire?" cried Carl. "Right off the bat?"

"Ha ha," said Jinette sourly.

"Sorry. But really— right from the beginning, with no training or anything—"

"Do not worry about that. We will hypnotize him into thinking that he is a great monster hunter. We will even give him memories of fighting, oh, say, Mr. Hyde in London."

"Who's going to be in charge of this hypnotizing thingie?"

"One of the monks who doesn't like you."

"Oh. Alright."

"This message will self-destruct in five seconds," said Jinette, and beeped. Carl took on an expectant expression.

"Five— four— three— two—" he counted to himself.

The Cardinal exploded.

At least, thought Carl, this time it wasn't his fault.

The hypnotizing was duly undertaken, and Carl went to find Van Helsing as he awoke.

"Carl! I had the strangest dream! We were in London— and you were wearing a dress!"

Carl gritted his teeth.

"Come on, Van Helsing."

"Where are we going?"

"Transylvania."

"But— but, Carl—" said Van Helsing, hurrying after him. "Carl, I don't want to go to Transylvania! I'm not a field man—"

Wonderful, thought Carl sourly. Somebody snafu-ed, and I've got to clean it up.

Such is the life of a monk.

Friar.

Novice.

Carl.

Humph.


	5. The Real Journey

Heya, everybody, finally we got our power back on, so I can rejoin the land of the technologically advanced. Good news (for a given value of "good" anyway) I've written the first three chapters of "OVB: Road Trip" and the first one will be appearing any day now. So watch out for that.... meanwhile, please read and review! As always! It's not like anyone ever says anything different! 'Cause we like reviews! Yes we do! Yessss, preciousssss! Sorry.

(Does Faramir voice) To entah the Forbidden Pool bears the penalty of death. That's, uh, why its called the Forbidden Pool. Heh heh.

Chapter Five: The Real Journey

Leaving the Vatican behind, after several hours in inner-city traffic Van Helsing finally got fed up with it all.

Poking his head out the window, he proclaimed, "As the man said to the other man when he was getting fed up, I'm getting fed up." With this as his only warning, he leapt from the carriage, leaving Carl to stare dumbfoundedly at the space where he had just been.

"Did he just— leap out of— a moving carriage—"

Future filmmakers took note and this rather nifty trick was used over and over again in their movies, although Van Helsing himself was never given credit.

Finally Carl got over his dumbfoundedness and leapt from the carriage after Van Helsing. Unfortunately he wasn't so strong, or fast, or tall, or lucky, or dark-haired as Van Helsing. He hit the ground running and, subsequently, falling.

Just as the hooves of a horse began to come down on him, the Writer decided to take a break and let everyone sweat it out.

Then she reconsidered.

After all, everyone's seen the movie... its not like they actually think Carl dies... and, as was pointed out in "Van Helsing and the Village People" its not like anyone believes the Writer would kill Carl off, because, lets face it, what fun would the world be without him?

The horse's hooves swerved aside at the last minute. Carl took a second to admire it, as he'd never seen a waltzing horse before.

Van Helsing grasped his collar and pulled him to safety.

"Carl, you idiot!"

"Van Helsing, have you ever seen a horse that flexible?"

"Where?" Carl pointed it out and the two equally hot men stared at the horse for a second. "That's amazing, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"So can we go now?"

"Why not?"

Walking, they moved faster than the traffic, which was at a standstill. It took them all of three days to get to the harbor, however, because, as a Random Passing Woman commented,

"What is it with men and never asking for directions?"

However, they made it eventually, just in time to hop on a ship. An officer tried to get them to pay for tickets but Van Helsing beat him up and quietly hid the body in a closet.

Then he relaxed on deck. "Ah, this is the life, isn't it, Carl?"

"No," said Carl, being violently sick over the side. Van Helsing watched him.

"You do realize, don't you, monk, that we haven't even left the harbor yet. The ship hasn't even started moving yet."

"Yes, I realize. Just wait till we get onto open water, see what I'm like then."

Van Helsing shook his head and went off to see if there was anything he could steal from the kitchens. Left by himself, Carl stared at the heavens above him and wished it was nighttime. Staring at the heavens above you is always more dramatic in the nighttime. Plus it was kind of foggy, so he couldn't actually see more than a few feet in front of him anyway.

Dramatics were being thwarted.

Oh no.


	6. The Real Posse

I have a friend who actually has a posse, these three teenaged girls who follow him around with adoring eyes. Its hecka funny.

Chapter Six: The Real Posse

"Carl!"

The little friar jumped awake and grumbled at the Writer for referring to him as "the little friar" again. "What, Van Helsing!"

"You've fallen off your horse!"

Carl opened his eyes and looked upwards. Sure enough, he was being dragged along the ground, one foot caught by the stirrups. A faint and ghost-like arrow appeared to be sticking out of his chest as his head bumped on the rocks. A zillion fangirls all over the world stood up and shouted, "Gimme an F! Gimme an A! Gimme an R! Gimme an A!"

"What are they spelling?"

"F-A-R-A—" said Carl thoughtfully.

"Fawcett?"

"I don't think so..."

"Gimme an R! Gimme an M ! Gimme an A!"

"F-A-R-A-R-M-A?"

"Wait," said one of the fangirls in confusion, "how do you spell "Faramir" anyway?"

"Gimme a T!" shouted another, but the rest of the Posse quickly shushed her.

Carl began to struggle to his feet, nearly spraining his ankle in the process. He stared at the fangirl's who were now blocking the road ahead of them. "Bloody he— er, heck, um, how do we get them to move?"

Van Helsing shrugged. "Why are you asking me? You're the tactical guy. I'm just the brawn."

Carl glared up at him, and levered himself upright, using the horse to steady himself. "Sorry to change the subject, but how long was I asleep like that?"

"You mean asleep and dragging on the ground?"

"Yes, that."

"Er— um—" Van Helsing squinted upwards in unaccustomed thought. "Two hours? Three?"

"Aha. That would explain why the back of my head is all bloody. Van Helsing—" Carl went on, gaping at the blood on his hands, "I feel a little—"

He fainted.

"Hmm," said Van Helsing thoughtfully. "That's not good."

The fangirls stopped conferring over how to spell "Ithilien" and rushed over and stood in a circle around the little friar, who revived briefly to mumble threats at the Writer for calling him that again, and then fell back into unconsciousness.

"Is he dead?" asked a fangirl.

"I don't know. Is he breathing?"

"Yes."

"Are you supposed to be breathing when you're dead?"

"I don't know."

"Does the Book say anything about this?" They all pulled out their worn copies of Lord of the Rings and flipped through them for a minute. "Yes!" said one triumphantly. "Farry fainted after coming back from battle, and that Awful Ugly Evil Denethor tried to burn him." She looked up at her sisters and her eyes glowed with an unholy light. "Quick, girls! Get some oil!"

The Posse scrambled around, conjuring firewood, torches, and lots and lots and lots of oil out of nothing. Van Helsing looked on interestedly as they hauled the friar's inert body on top of the wood and doused him with the oil.

Olive oil, it looked like. But it was hard to tell from this distance.

The girls clustered around Carl on the pyre and started some sort of chant that sounded an awful lot like _daisywithhisshirtoff... daisywithhisshirtoff... daisywithhisshirtoff_...( Which is of course the traditional mantra of Dwenham fangirls, but sounded pretty creepy anyway.)

The torches were brought closer, closer...

Now, thought Van Helsing to himself, should he rescue Carl or leave him to his death? Quickly he wondered why he was thinking about himself in third person, and if he should see a psychiatrist. He decided not to, as psychiatrists hadn't been invented yet.

Rescue Carl or not rescue Carl?

Hmm.

The age-old dilemma.

After all, Van Helsing argued with himself, the little friar had turned him into a rutabaga.

As soon as he thought that, Carl jumped awake, yelling at the top of his lungs, "Will you stop referring to me as the little friar!"

"Sorry," said the Writer mildly, "I only did it this time to save you."

"Couldn't you think of a less cliched way of doing so?"

"What, like having a hobbit rush up and land on you and roll you out of the flames?"

Pippin rushed up and jumped on the pyre, but unfortunately for the little hobbit, Carl had already escaped and there was no-one for him to save. Pippin immediately caught on fire. Luckily for him, about half of the Daisy Posse were also Pippin fangirls, and they saved him. They carted him off with them to go and drink some ale in a nearby inn.

There you go, a happy ending.

Unless you count Carl getting really angry and punching Van Helsing on the nose.


	7. The Real Anna Abuse

Chapter Seven: The Real Anna Abuse

_("Giant redwood" analogy stolen and adapted from Terry Pratchett)_

We now skip merrily to about fifteen minutes after Van Helsing and Carl have arrived in Transylvania. They rode into that tiny, shabby little refugee town where all the people have spent far too long in makeup and attempted to get off their horses.

Carl had a little trouble, not being used to horses, even though in a previous existence he had been Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and part-time centaur.

Van Helsing had a little more trouble, because even though he was perfectly used to horses, A: his horse didn't like him and, B: he'd smuggled some whiskey under his cloak and was now drunk as a skunk. After several tries at detaching himself from the very irritated equine, he finally gave up and toppled over, like a giant redwood taking the first step on the journey to becoming a million "Save the Trees" leaflets.

Carl stood over him and looked down.

"Well, I hope you're ashamed," he said severely.

"Not so much ashamed as embarrassed," Van Helsing mumbled into the ground. "Is anyone looking?"

"Everyone," said Carl, still severely. He decided not to mention that everyone, in this case, consisted of about three children, a cow, and a curious chicken. "I say I hope you're ashamed—"

"Yes, I heard that. Because I drank too much and fell off my horse, I assume you mean?"

"No. Because you didn't see fit to share any liquor with me." Carl stepped back as Van Helsing began the slow process of getting himself back to his feet and more or less upright. "After all these years we've known each other, Van Helsing—"

"Has it been years?" Van Helsing frowned. "Only seems like a few weeks, if that."

"Well, it seems like years to _me_. But you'd think after everything I've done for you, when you lay hands on the invigorating spirits, don't you feel slightly compelled to share the wealth with your old friend Carl Hampt—"

"If it'll shut you up," said Van Helsing, handing him the two-thirds empty bottle. Carl gave an exclamation of delight that sounded like this:

"HhhhhhraaaaHA!"

—and fell on the whiskey. It was gone in about two seconds and Carl, with a goofy smile on his face, started stumbling after Van Helsing.

They went through the banter that, for many people, defines the movie. Only, in real life, they were both slurring badly.

"Why ish ert sho importhant to kill thish Draculash, anyway?"

"Becaush he'sh the— hic— shon of the Devil."

"I mean beshides that."

"Becaush if we kill him an— hic— anything created or, or, or, or bittensh by— hic— by him willalsho die."

"I mean beshides that."

"Shurrrup, Carl."

"Ish it— are you alrwaysh thish popular?"

"Pretty— hic— muchsh."

A short drop and a sudden stop later, Anna had shown up and was quickly disgusted with them both.

"She'sh pretty," said Van Helsing, leering cheerfully at her.

"Ohyeah," said Carl agreeably. "Ohyeah ohyeah ohyeah ohyeah."

"Kill them," said Anna, more than a little offended.

"Waitwaitwaitwait!" said Van Helsing. Carl thought this was hilarious.

"Waitwaitwait!" he mimicked Van Helsing. "Hee hee. 'Waitwait!'"

"Shurrup, Carl."

"Kill them," said Anna, because that was the only line she could remember.

"But— doncha wanna buy me a drink?" Van Helsing asked her with his version of a charming grin. It would have been more charming if he hadn't knocked two of his front teeth out when he fell off his horse.

"I wanna drink!" chanted Carl loudly. "I wanna drink!"

"Kill them," repeated Anna, getting flustered now.

"DOWN!" hollered Van Helsing suddenly.

"Kill them?" said Anna interrogatively before the vampire bride that had been sneaking up behind her with a smile on her face grabbed her by the hair and started swinging her in circles like a lasso.

"Too late," moaned Van Helsing. "Too late too late too late—"

"KiiiiiiIIIIIlllllLLLLL theeEEEEmmmMMMMMmmmmMMMM!" shrieked Anna, swinging around and around. Then, deciding to leave the script alone since it certainly hadn't helped thus far, she said, "LlllLLLeeeEEEtttttt MMMMeeeeeee gooOOOOOO!"

"Okay," said the vampire bride, gave one more swing for good measure, and let go of Anna's hair.

"EEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee—" went Anna as she shot over the heads of the onlookers and flew away, landing several hundred yards away and crashing through the roof of Valerious Manor.

"Vampires," said Carl, crouching on the ground in the mud and wishing he had his bow and arrow with him. "Why did it have to be vampires—"

Years later this line was stolen and adapted by Steven Spielberg and shoved in an Indiana Jones movie. The original use fits better, however, and not only that but even when Harrison Ford was young and hot he still had nuthin' on Carl.

"We should go find Anna," said Van Helsing brightly. "I'm sure she'll want to buy me a drink."

So together, against all odds, our intrepid heros set out on the long and arduous trek cross- country to Valerious Manor—

The drama of the situation was marred briefly by the fact that they got immediately sidetracked into the local pub, where Carl made quite a hit with the Transylvanian barmaid.


	8. The Real Costume

Reciprocal promotion: READ RogueCajun's "VH and the Totally Cliched Sequel" It, like, totally rocks havers! Valley-girl sqeal The squirrel commands it.

And, on a side-note, does anyone else think that Vanessa Carlton is crap? Just curious.

Carl's Sidebar

Carl: Hullo, and welcome to the new chapter of... whatever the heck this fic is called! I'm here to promote the nickname of "Dwenham" for David Wenham. According to Sarah at the Dessiccated Coconut site, "Daisy" is reserved for close friends and family and people who run Wenham-devoted websites. Don't ask me why.

Audience: Why?

Carl: (irritated) I said don't ask me!

Chapter Eight: The Real Costume

Aaaaaaand now we skip, still merrily, over to directly after that whole one-on-one thing between Anna and Van Helsing... you know, the one with all the cliched dialogue. The one where Anna sticks a knife in her boot (although the real story is she missed. The wrong way. And ended up with a knife in her foot. Anyway). The one where Carl seems to have disappeared somewhere. The one where Van Helsing ends up shooting her with some sort of Evil Nasal Spray. You know the one I'm talking about.

Anna slumped in Van Helsing's arms, having just received a face-ful of ENS (see above). Van Helsing looked down at her and apologized, even though he knew full well she couldn't hear him. Then, carefully, tenderly, and only banging her head into a few doorways and walls along the way, he carried her through the house and, after about ten minutes of searching, located her room. He had laid her on the bed and was staring at her when he noticed that she wasn't, in fact, breathing.

The resultant yell brought Carl scuttling from the tower library.

"What is it?"

"She's stopped breathing! What was in that Evil Nasal Spray you gave me?"

"A mild narcotic. She should be having kooky dreams, not not-breathing!" Carl bent his ear to Anna's mouth, then started performing ACPR (Antique CPR) which, apart from the usual, modern practice also includes hyperventilating from the idea of actually touching a woman. "How much did you give her?"

"All of it," said Van Helsing somewhat guiltily.

"All of it? Are you insane? Don't answer that. Just get me a knife."

"Are you going to hurt me?"

"I might," said Carl in a dangerous growl, "if you don't get me the knife fast enough."

"Okay," said Van Helsing, and yanked the knife out of Anna's foot. "Here."

"This one's all bloody!"

"I don't think she cares, it is her blood after all."

"What have you been doing to this poor woman, Van Helsing?"

"No, she did that herself. All I did was knock her out."

Carl muttered to himself and began to cut Anna's corset off. Years later this move was reproduced in "The Pirates of the Caribbean: the Curse of the Black Pearl" a movie which had Johnny Depp and Geoffrey Rush but still very nearly sank under the weight of its enormously long title. The movie, some will probably say indignantly, also had Orlando Bloom, but the Writer would like to say that the only interest Orlando Bloom holds for her is he probably knows David Wenham.

Van Helsing watched him interestedly.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"Cutting her corset off, what does it look like?"

"It looked like you were doing that move from "Pirates of the Caribbean."

"Shut up," commanded the friar, brandishing the knife at him. Anna was now free of the corset, and Carl began once again to administer ACPR, and trying not to think about it.

"Let me try," said Van Helsing.

"I said shut up!"

A good ten minutes later Anna was breathing again, though extremely blue in the face. She drew deep ragged breaths, and Carl pulled a blanket over her considerately.

"What do we do now?"

"Well, I'd suggest we not be here when she wakes up."

"Why not?" Van Helsing wanted to know.

"Because A, you're the one who knocked her out in the first place and she's liable to be rather ticked off about that, and B, judging by the lack of closet in this room we have just destroyed her only costume. If I were her I'd be rather ticked off about that, as well."

"If you were her," said Van Helsing, and thought about this for a while. "You wouldn't be allowed in the Vatican."

"True," agreed Carl, shooing him towards the door.

"If she were you— she'd be blond."

"Van Helsing, you're beginning to dribble. You must remember to close your mouth occasionally."

"If she were _me,_ she'd be_ hot._"

"Quite. Now get out of my way."

"What do we do now, Carl?"

"She did say she had a wine cellar around here somewhere, didn't she?"

Quite some time later, when Anna awoke, she was indeed seriously ticked off. She also had to spend the rest of the movie in a loose t-shirt she borrowed from Velkan's room. She wouldn't have minded this quite as much except it made her look chubby and also had a picture of Madonna on it.


	9. The Real Confusion in the Kitchen

Look, mom, updates!

Chapter Nine: The Real Confusion in the Kitchen

Backtracking slightly—

It was a dark and stormy night. The weatherman predicted snow, and then rain, and then snow again before it decided to rain some more, with undercurrents of definite weather showing up at the northeastern end of Transylvania, and a small cloud of dissension and smothered sexuality centered directly over Carl.

Anna woke up and said, "Get out of here!"

"Fine," said the weatherman, a bit defensively, "I was just doing my job."

"Well, do it somewhere else! Push off!"

The weatherman made a face at her and pushed off.

Anna thought deeply for a moment. Her sleep had been restful and quiet, apart from a rather frightening dream about squirrels. It took her quite a while to figure out why she felt so irritated.

"_Squirrels!_" she said angrily. Then— "No. _Van Helsing_!"

She swung her legs off the bed, stood up, and fell down immediately. Her head was reeling. Also she was extremely worried about the fact that the only thing clothing her torso was a shirt with Madonna on it.

She decided to lay down again and have a nice nap.

Some hours later, Van Helsing and Carl were having a cup of tea in the kitchens because they had been unable to locate the Manor Bar. They were irritated and sober and irritated because they were sober.

"I miss the Vatican," said Carl, and sobbed.

"Do you suppose this Dracula really can turn into a bat?" asked Van Helsing thoughtfully.

"I don't know. Why?"

"Because if he can— he could fly, right?"

"Presumably."

"Then he's like a— batman, right?"

"I suppose."

"Then why doesn't he use his powers for good instead of evil?"

Years later this premise was unaccountably stolen and turned into a series of hit movies, two of which were directed by Tim Burton and starred Michael Keaton, and two of which were crap. We hear that another one is coming out, in fact we have seen the preview, but we remain supremely doubtful.

Van Helsing and Carl looked at each other. "What a silly question," they said at the same time.

"Good instead of evil?" repeated Carl. "What kind of goody-two-shoes are you?"

"Well," said Van Helsing, " I do work for the Vatican."

"So?"

"You're right. Shall we go search some more for the liquor cabinet?"

"No, lets just be sober for a while."

They sat still and silent for thirty seconds.

"Alright," said Carl. "Now lets go look for the liquor cabinet."

But at that precise, exact, accurate, certain, dead-on moment, Anna entered. She was breathing fire, smoke emitted from her nostrils, and small horns were growing up through her hair.

"Van— Heeeeeeeeelsinggggg!"

"What?" said Van Helsing vacantly. "Did you want something?"

"Can we help you?" said Carl, took another look at her, and dove beneath the table, leaving Van Helsing to deal with the beast on his own.

"You knocked me out!"

"Yes. No. No. It was Carl."

"Why did you knock me out?"

"I— uh— well— you'd just stabbed yourself with a knife and I was afraid the pain would be too much for you and you would pass out, so I just went ahead and took care of it so I could, you know, catch you when you fell."

"Oh," said Anna. This touched her heart and she began to realize that Van Helsing was totally and irrevocably in love with her. Obviously he didn't know it yet, but she was confident in her ability to prove it to him. "And did you catch me?"

"I— well— er— no. I tried," he added quickly. "But my reactions were impaired by alcohol—"

"I suppose that would explain the bump on my head."

"Well, that, and you hit a few walls when I carried you to bed."

"Ah." She considered, rubbing at the back of her head thoughtfully. "And was it you who undressed me?"

"No, that was Carl."

Anna stopped still, her eyes wide, her face a mask of horror. "Carl?"

"Yeah."

"The monk?"

"Yeah."

She'd had it all wrong! It wasn't Van Helsing who loved her at all!! Clearly it was the little blond Carl person!!! !!!!!

Sometimes it worried her when she thought exclusively in exclamation marks.

But not that much.

"Oh..." she said, misty-eyed. Van Helsing watched her nervously.

"Shall we— uh— go get Dracula now?"

"Oh, he can wait a few minutes."

"But—"

"Hold your horses!" she snapped.

"Is it safe to come out now?" Carl asked from underneath the table.

"As safe as it ever is," said Anna in what she considered to be dulcet tones (it sounded like she was pinching her nose and talking through that) and put on a provocative stare. Carl clambered out from underneath the table and wondered why Anna was smirking at him.

"Did I do something funny?" he enquired.

"Funny," repeated Anna. "Oh, yessss, little mister Comic Relief— hilaaaaarioussss."

"You're scaring me," said Carl.

"Shall we go find Dracula?" prompted Van Helsing.

"Yes, please," said Carl.

"No, Carl, you stay here. Anna and I will go find Dracula. Come along, Anna." Van Helsing took her arm and forcefully and almost kind of gently led her to the big double doors. There he bowed and said, "Ladies first."

Anna refrained from making the obvious comment (insert obvious comment here) and swept past him into the cold dark beyond. Van Helsing slammed the door after her and walked back to the kitchen, dusting off his hands.

"That's her taken care of," he announced to Carl, who had found a cake in a cupboard and now had frosting all over his face. "Lets find that liquor cabinet, shall we?"


	10. The Real Life of Frankenstein

Glad to see you again, HyperCaz! I went to my email a few days ago and there were 57 messages (a record mind you) and most of them were because of your reviews. Thanks a million! Or 57 anyway!

Carnicirthial, heeeeeeere's Frankenstein! This was actually my favourite chapter to write so far, so thanks for putting the idea into my head.

FlutterbyButterfly, thanks for reviewing, looking forward to your next chapter.

MariAmber, always glad to hear from you (hugs).

Fig-aruna (fascinating name) Great to have a new reader...

N.N.M are you reviewing backwards? LOL don't care, just glad to hear from you.

RogueCajun, what do you think of Carl actually really being in love with her? No, better yet, Anna is in love with Carl for good. I think I'll run with that.

Mat! You reviewed a Van Helsing fic! I'm so pleased! Everybody, read Elenhin's fics, they're seriously awesome.

And really quickly, anonymous reviewer GrEeNgEiGe: I really don't mean to sound like I hate anything. But sadly, because of my deeply cynical nature, I feel obligated to make fun of everything, whether I like it or not. Hence this fic. If you want to read one where I don't make fun of Van Helsing, give "Big Bang Theory" a try.

Chapter Ten: The Real Life of Frankenstein

Leaving Carl and Van Helsing where they are for the time being, we trip merrily on our way to Castle Frankenstein, where everyone's favourite unholy man-made monster is having a little trouble.

He was talking to his psychiatrist, which was actually half the problem.

"Nobody understands me," he moaned. "I mean, maybe its something to do with the fact that I spend a lot of time going "Hurrrr" and "Arrr" and "Grrr" and so forth, but you know, just because I like to make ambiguous sounds doesn't mean I can't talk like a normal person."

"Hmm," said the psychiatrist.

"And then there's the thing about my name. I mean, all I ever hear is 'Frankenstein's Monster.' I know I shouldn't let it bother me, but does anyone ever bother to find out what my real name is? Does anyone say, Hey, my name's Ted, or Alice, or Donald, or Trump, what's yours? No, its just 'Frankenstein's Monster!' All the bleedin' time."

"Hmm," said the psychiatrist.

"You know?"

"Hmm."

"Hurr?"

"Arr."

"And its like, well, since Dad died, I— I have such grief, you know, and no way to get over it, it seems like. And, I, I, I know I had a conflicted relationship with him— I know it seemed like we were totally devoted to each other, but lets face it, after I was created he was only alive for like, an hour. And conscious for like, five minutes, you know? So we weren't exactly what you would call close. And anyway it just goes back to the name thing, you know? 'Frankenstein's Monster.' Its like everyone thinks he created me."

"Hmm," said the psychiatrist.

"I mean, I realize, he did create me, its just— I'd like to be recognized on my own merits, you know? I mean, is that so hard, to recognize someone on their own merits? I mean, I play the piano, did you know that? I just started taking lessons last month. It's a little hard, it's a little difficult. My fingers keep falling off and I have to get them sewed on again by Hilda the house maid. But— what else— I have this dream of scuba diving some day. I, I, I'd like to be a fire fighter, to rescue people. Of course I realize I'd have to get over my mortal terror of fire, but I think I'm beginning to work through that, you know—"

"Hmm," said the psychiatrist, lighting a cigar.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUGH!" said Frankenstein's Monster, and cowered behind the sofa for twenty minutes. When he came out again he apologized and went on.

"One of these days I'm going to write a book. I was thinking maybe an autobiography, you know? I mean, not one of those totally self-absorbed autobiographies, the "The Story of Me" kind, the kind that Terry Gross refers to as 'memoirs.' But a real one. 'Frankenstein's Monster: Behind the White Lab Coat and Horrific Scars.' 'Behind The Boris Karloff Version.' 'I Am Not Boris Karloff.' That kind of thing. It was Boris Karloff who played me in that one film, wasn't it?"

"Hmm," said the psychiatrist.

" 'I Am Not Shuler Hensley,' how about that?"

"Hmm."

"Anyway. And then, you know, then there's the fan club. I've been having a little trouble with that, see. They're nice people, you know, I guess when you get to know them all, but they tend to swarm, you know? Like, like bees. And that's another thing, I have to get over this irrational fear of bees. I mean, I've never even been stung by a bee. I guess I just don't like the idea of sharp things. And open graves. Open graves really get to me. Funny, you'd think they'd remind me of home."

The psychiatrist pursed his lips and looked at him thoughtfully. "Mr. Fronkensteen—"

"That's Frankenstein."

"Whatever. I wonder— would you be willing to pose nude? Its just I have this contract with US magazine, you know the people who are sponsoring the Win A Date With Frankenstein's Monster Sweepstakes? And I could get big bucks if I get you to agree to a photo shoot. It'd be totally decent, very tastefully done. And your fan club would eat it up."

Frankenstein's Monster stared at him. "You haven't been listening to a word I've been saying, have you?" he said.

"Hmm?" said the psychiatrist.

"I feel so betrayed," said Frankenstein's Monster sadly, got up, killed the psychiatrist quickly, and left the house, brushing aside several photographers on the way.


	11. The Real Reality Overlap

By the way everybody, I am now posting my original novels on fictionpress, as foxfirelightswitch. I would really appreciate people reading those, too.... :)

Chapter Eleven: The Real Reality Overlap

"Rainbows are really cool," said Carl dreamily.

"Hmm?"

"So are squirrels."

"SQUIRRELS?"

"You got a problem with squirrels?"

"SQUIRRELS?"

"Squirrels are cute. They have bushy tails and perky little ears and they hide nuts."

"SQUIRRELS?"

"And they eat sheet-rock. No, wait. That's not right. Termites eat sheet-rock. Squirrels eat— squirrels eat— what do squirrels eat—"

"SQUIRRELS?"

"We had a real problem with termites eating the sheet-rock at the Vati— vat— vashicam— um— "

"SQUIRRELS?"

"Would you stop screaming SQUIRRELS, Van Helsing?"

"Where are the squirrels?"

"There aren't any."

Van Helsing grasped Carl by the nonexistent lapels of his robes. "Where are the squirrels?"

"Um— over there." Carl pointed in a corner. Van Helsing let go of him and ran for it.

"SQUIRRELS?"

"Decoupage!" said Carl triumphantly. "Squirrels eat decoupage! Also long hair if they're hungry enough," he added, causing instant panic on Van Helsing's part. Van Helsing grabbed at his hat and pulled it down over his ears.

"They're not gonna get my hair," he mumbled.

"That's alright," said Carl, "I was just making it up. Hmm. Knights errant. Turtles. Pea soup and peanut butter. Do you know, I think I'm still a bit drunk?"

"Do your Faramir voice," said Van Helsing, forgetting instantly about the squirrels.

"Why should I?"

"Do your Faramir voice, or I shall remember about the squirrels, and then you will be sorry."

"To entah the forbidden pool bears the penalty of death," said Carl, darkly and With Angst. Van Helsing laughed and clapped. "Listen to this— Faramir! Eowyn. Faramir! Eowyn.... Faaaramiiir! Eeeeeowyyynnn...."

Van Helsing laughed till he choked.

Suddenly the door banged open and Frankenstein ran in.

"Which way to Dracula's Castle?" he asked.

"The Frankenstein Monster!" howled Van Helsing and Carl.

Frankenstein looked extremely unhappy. He bit his lip and began to sniff. "I really hate it when people do that. I have a name of my own, you know."

"Really?" asked Carl. "What is it?"

"Duncan," said the Frankenstein Monster. "Duncan Hines Frankenstein."

"That's funny," said Van Helsing, and began to laugh.

"No its not!"

"Actually, I have to agree with Van Helsing, it is kind of funny," said Carl, "but that's only because we are drunk. Excuse me a minute, won't you?" He laughed for about five minutes, rolling on the floor. Frankenstein frowned at them.

"I need to get to Dracula's Castle," he said.

"What's your hurry?" asked Van Helsing, giving him, for no apparent reason, his famous One-Eyebrow-Raised Look, which is currently undergoing copyright transfer from Sean Connery.

"They're about to use Anna to turn all Drac's children into Teletubbies. I can't let that happen."

"Why not?"

"Because I am in love with her. Also I hate Teletubbies."

"When did you ever meet Anna?" Carl wanted to know. "Not that I'm jealous or anything. I'm just— curious, that's it, curious."

"She organized my fan club," said Frankenstein. "So will you help me get to Dracula's Castle in order to save the woman all three of us want to marry?"

Van Helsing and Carl looked at each other.

"We're going to need a carriage," said Van Helsing.

"Why?" asked Frankenstein.

"Because I don't want to carry all these bottles of vodka by myself!"

"Van Helsing, why don't we—" suggested Carl, "leave the vodka here."

Van Helsing stared at him. "WHAT?"

"Never mind," sighed Carl. "Go get the carriage."

"But we have no horses," said Frankenstein.

"Don't worry about it. We'll let Van Helsing pull. He's always boasting about having the strength of ten men anyway."

And so they set off in the carriage, passing another carriage going the other way—

"Hey, those people looked familiar," said Van Helsing, looking back after them.

"That's because they were us," said Carl calmly.

"What do you mean?"

"They were us in the fic "Big Bang Theory" headed back to London. Our realities overlapped, briefly."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Did we bring any vodka?" asked Van Helsing plaintively. "I don't think I can cope with all this right now."

"I know!" said Carl. "Lets have an extremely sudden endi—


	12. The Real Musical Interlude and Descent o...

Chapter Twelve: The Real Musical Interlude and Descent on Dracula's Castle

"This is absolutely ridiculous," complained Carl. "Its raining, and I'm soaking wet, and I'm hungry, and I'm soaking wet, and you made me leave without saying goodbye to my girlfriend, and I'm soaking wet, and—"

"Shut up Carl," said Van Helsing. "You're the only one with a cloak. You should be fine."

"Frankenstein has an umbrella," said Carl, sulking.

"Duncan," said Frankenstein's monster angrily, "and it is a parasol."

"Umbrella, parasol, whatever."

"What exactly makes it a parasol?" inquired Van Helsing curiously, with the kind of inquisitiveness that you would normally find in a mentally challenged five year old.

"The little polka dots," answered Carl, jeering slightly.

"Actually," said Frankenstein's monster, "it's the ruffles round the rim. Gee, that sounds like a song, doesn't it?"

From seemingly nowhere, an orchestra struck up, and Frankenstein began to sing.

"Its not the dots and polkas, aye, its not the long-held superstitions

That makes a monster true a monster, not for any amount o' wishin'

For Dracula and Frankenstein bring fear right up to the very rim

They do it on account of the perky ruffles round the rim!

Come on, join in!"

Carl and Van Helsing sang back up, gamely. "Oooo—ooo— oooooooohhhh...."

Frankenstein jumped off his horse and sang gently into the camera:

"Night-time horrors

Scared with all the senses

Darkness stirs and

Overcomes defenses—

Quietly the undead

Try to become the re-dead—

Da da-da-da-da-daaa-da-da-da-daaaaa—

And its all because o' the

Ruffles round the riiiimmm...."

Andrew Lloyd Webber poked his head out from behind a tree and began to complain, but the Phantom strangled him with a rope and then ran off cackling maniacally.

"Ooooo, bay-bee bay-bee—" sang Carl, eyes closed in rapture. Van Helsing whapped him upside the head, as he was wont to do.

"Those aren't the words!"

"Well it's better than all this opera crap," snapped Carl.

"Come on, Carl, be tolerant. There's— there's nothing wrong with "The Phantom of the Opera" that a little less singing wouldn't fix. Or," Van Helsing added, upon reflection, "a lot less singing."

The voice of the Writer floated across the screen. "Actually, I quite liked it," she said brightly.

Van Helsing rolled his eyes. "Come on, Frankenstein—"

"Duncan!" said Frankenstein, his lip quivering.

"Whatever. Come on, I thought you wanted to save Anna."

"Why does it matter? She's in love with Carl," moaned Frankenstein.

"This is fantastic," said Carl. "First Van Helsing the drunk, now Frankenstein's monster has angst. This is fantastic."

"You said that already," said Van Helsing.

"And Carl the repeater," said Frankenstein spitefully.

"Never mind that, can we please get a move on?"

They got a move on. Actually several moves on, as Frankenstein was still la-la-laing to himself and trying to dance, which seriously disturbed the horse he was riding and caused the poor equine (who's name was Fig Newton) to enter counseling shortly afterwards. This was very expensive and virtually impoverished his family, and ever afterwards Fig's son, Figsson, hunted Frankenstein with a deadly passion. Unfortunately, as he was just a horse, he wasn't able to do much apart from occasionally try to trample Frankenstein— which didn't really work, as Frankenstein was a good bit bigger than the horse, which was why Fig was so disturbed in the first place. So its really a vicious circle, you see, and isn't Gerard Butler kind of cute?

They approached Dracula's castle expecting to be frightened out of their wits at any moment, but were disappointed as the sun came out and flowers began to bloom. A small orange sign on the side of the road said _Vampire Xing_, which made Carl rather nervous but didn't much bother anyone else.

They reached the front door and Van Helsing said, "Shall we knock?"

"I don't know," said Carl. "Mrs. Hairloss's Book of Etiquette doesn't exactly cover this situation."

"I mean, should we let him know we're here or shall we just go right in?"

"If it was up to me, I'd turn back immediately."

"It isn't up to you."

"Then why don't you decide for yourself?" said Carl, and sulked violently.

Van Helsing exchanged glances with Frankenstein's Duncan, shrugged, and kicked down the door. Or tried to, anyway. The first time he just hurt his foot, and hopped up and down for a few minutes cursing. Carl looked absolutely delighted.

Dracula opened the door and looked out on them. "You knocked?" he inquired politely.

"No we bloody didn't!" spat Van Helsing, reached in and slammed the door shut. He stood for a while and regained his composure, then took a deep breath, moved away a few steps and ran at the door. This time he bounced off and landed on the ground.

The door cracked open a bit again and Dracula peered out. "This time?"

"No!" howled Van Helsing from the ground.

"Give him once more," said Carl apologetically. "He's stubborn about his pride."

Dracula shrugged and closed the gap again, only this time he did not close it all the way. Carl noticed and smiled slightly.

This time Van Helsing walked for five minutes before he turned and ran. He ran quickly, lightly, feet pounding the ground, breath hissing out, eyes squinted against the wind, mind wishing he had blond hair, then maybe he'd be successful with the ladies like Carl. As he reached the door it swung open and Van Helsing carried on through, rushed on by his momentum.

"OoooOOOOO _CRAAAAAP_!"

Carl, unfortunately, missed the landing, but he heard the crash and a delighted smile appeared on his face. He turned to Frankenstein, who simply didn't appear to be equipped with the muscles that you need in order to look pleasant— which was, perhaps, why people reacted to him the way they would to a marquee star. Carl's smile faded and jealousy grew in his heart.

"_Why don't I have a fan club?_" he wondered to himself.

There and then he swore to himself that someday he would, even if he started it himself, and thus the David Wenham Rocks Havers Fan Club began to stir into exotic life. Words are fun today.

Dracula stood over Van Helsing and looked down on him, allowing his dark hair to hang sexily over his face. Fangirls swooned and the Writer rolled her eyes. Eventually Dracula found it necessary to move his hair in order to see the man who lay on the ground before him.

"Is this your silver stake?" he said, holding the said silver stake out to him.

Van Helsing blinked at it. "No, not mine. Never seen it before."

"Ah. It must belong to one of the Dwergi."

"Sorry I can't help you there."

"That is alright. So, you have come to kill me?"

"Have I?" asked Van Helsing blearily. "I don't know. I have just recieved quite a knock to the head, you know, and my memory is not what it once was. At least I don't think it is. I may be mistaken about that."

Dracula smiled gently at him. "Well, that's just fine. I expect you're just making a friendly call."

"Ah, yes, that seems much more likely."

"Tea?"

"Yes please."

And so they retired to the sitting room to lounge in flowered armchairs and imbibe tea and crumpets. And thus the saga of Van Helsing and Carl the Comic Relief Friar was ended.

_Or was it?_

Find out next time! If there isn't a next time, you know this is the end!


End file.
